The Stag and the Serpent
by BookwormBelle
Summary: Hermione at Harry's funeral. It's been done, but I like to think I added a twist.


A/N: One-shot story about Hermione at Harry's funeral Disclaimer: none of the characters in this Fic belong to me.  
  
In the far reaches of my mind, I still hear them fighting, a spew of childish hexes and cursing. As much as hated him then, I must admit, I grew to love him over the years, finding a teasing care behind his insults, and a smile hidden beneath his smirk. The two of them completed the variety of our foursome. I'll see neither those guarded, slate eyes, nor the laughing green ones, again. They're gone.  
  
The box, made of ash and oak, is lowered into the ground with the pomp of a prince, which he was, in the eyes of the people. Slowly, it worked its way down, prolonging the ache of my heart. I want to scream at them to hurry it up, but I know that the hurt will only proceed to agony. The crowds of people that surround me never knew him; most saw him maybe once or twice. Few could recognize his laugh in a crowd, or read his eyes. Only I could, Ron and me. Only we understood Harry.  
  
My eyes flick over to a darker corner, a different gravestone. Just before they left, he kissed me. He said that he had always loved me and left. I never had a chance to agree, never knew the warmth within his arms. He was different then Harry, he had no one to grieve his death. His family renounced him, disgusted in his choices, while the rest of the world spat on him, and yet still, his head was always held high. I never once saw him cry out, or retaliate when he was persecuted. He always simply walked on, staring straight ahead. Looking back, I just want to assure him that people cared for him, but, as I survey the scene around me, I realize that it wouldn't have been true. The disbanding group trickles in the direction of the street. Most pass right over his body without knowing what they are doing. Those who stop long enough to comprehend the well-known surname avoid the area, looks of disgust contorting their features, as if the man I loved was the spawn of the very devil.  
  
Did you know that it was I who found them? I was the one who flung open the doors, expecting my best friend and former enemy to be there, perhaps injured, or still fighting. They were there, but sprawled over the floor, streams of blood twisted into a grotesque mural of death. I expect that I notified the ministry, but all I remember is looking down on the empty shells that had once been two of the most important men in my life. I doubt, and hope, that many know the whole anguish of having three people spread before you, none of whom can claim a beating heart. Perhaps Voldemort never had a heart. How else can you kill such bright lights of good? How else can you do something like that to someone like me, and Ron, and Ginny. When Sirius died, I couldn't understand how Harry could carry on like that over a man he had known for only two years. Now I know. They loved each other, and each was all the family the other has had. Harry still had us, and I still have Ron, but my life has fallen to pieces at my feet, and I don't have the energy or the optimism to pick it up again.  
  
Appraising my surroundings, I saw that I was alone next to the chasm that held one of the most valiant wizards the magical world has ever seen. I rose from the knees I hadn't realized I had sunk to, and began the trek back to the car. Wobbling, partially because of my shoes, and partially from disbelief, I made my way to the freshly carved slab of marble. Draco never had a funeral. Who would have come? Only Harry and me. Or he would have. The cold stone looks so much like his eyes, but the headstone never softens. It stays hard and unrelenting as I press my lips against it, rise and continue down the hill.  
  
As he sees me, a redhead in the distance crosses around to the driver's side of the car, in anticipation of my arrival. I want to stop and throw myself to the ground. I want to dwell in my state of suspended animation forever, don't want to tear my heart from this place of mourning. Don't want to leave them here, forgotten. As I stumbled along, an image of their faces came into my mind. They always wanted me to be happy. I had to do my best to live up to the ideals they had left me in the world that Voldemort had left me. With a sudden strength in my stride, I slid into the backseat of the rental muggle car, and lean my head back on the dark fabric. I will always love them both. The stag and the serpent. My fingers run over my chapped lips, and I sigh, sitting back and resigning myself to sleep, where my friend and my love wait to bid me one last goodbye.  
  
A/N: not that great, but I was inspired. Feedback, please! 


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